The Beginning and End and Beginning of It
by Britani Gael
Summary: [VERSUS] After surviving the forest, Prisoner KCS2303 starts down the path of destruction.


Title: The Beginning/End/Beginning of It

Author: Britani Gael (sterlingsylver at lj)

Fandom: The Ultimate Versus

Rating: R; violence and implied rape

Summary: After surviving the forest, Prisoner KCS2-303 starts down the path of destruction.

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_ nanimo omoidasenai_

He couldn't see – the blood ran into his eyes, thick and smooth, it burned and he blinked and he still couldn't see. But he could hear, no matter how hard he tried to block out the screams, he could still hear.

"Shut up," he shouted. At _her_ or at_ them_, he didn't know. He lunged forward with one fist and hit nothing; they laughed at his lumbering attempts to fight blind. "Knock it off!"

A fist connected with his face. He hit the ground, hard, colors flashed behind his eyelids as his skull smashed against concrete. They kept laughing. She kept screaming.

Less, now.

He'd never seen them before, not until fifteen minutes ago. He'd never see them again. They were finishing with her, they'd gotten what they wanted. Her cries faded into soft whimpering.

The laughing didn't fade. Another kick, a harsh one to his ribs. He never lost but he'd lost something today, something important, even if he didn't know why or how or _why_. The blood in his mouth and the pain in his chest meant he couldn't breathe, and that was okay because he didn't need to. He knew he could survive worse, he knew because he had.

He could hear them circling, their boots making soft sounds on the pavement.

"Don't! Please, stop, please—" She was crying. It made him sick, and he was thankful someone slapped her silent.

He couldn't see, but he knew what was coming. He anticipated the next blow, rolled with the kick aimed at his kidney and shoved off the ground, back on his feet.

Five? Fifteen? It really didn't matter.

He reached out blind, again, this time he caught a fist full of hair and slammed it against the wall he knew was directly behind him. Before the body crumpled to the ground, an arm closed around his neck, the elbow folded at his throat.

He could take them apart one by one. With his hands. It really didn't matter.

He broke ribs with his elbow. He shattered his opponent's arm with a lock over his shoulder, he heard the spine crack against that same brick wall. And he was dead, too. They were all dead and just didn't know it yet.

A face came apart in his fingers and the screaming started all over again.

She was screaming. It'd fallen to him to protect her and it was his responsibility that she didn't get hurt and he didn't remember when it'd happened and he didn't remember when he'd agreed to it. They were screaming too, and someone tried to run when he caught them by the hood of their windbreaker. Just a kid, probably. He screamed, too.

"Stop it, you have to _stop it_!"

He couldn't see, but he could hear their feet, he could sense the stumbling and panic, he could hear her voice crack at the sound of splintering bone. He hit their knees and they couldn't run. Her footfalls were softer than the rest, he could hear the rustling of her sleeves as she pressed herself into the fight.

He wanted to move away from her, he never wanted her to touch him again for the rest of both of their lives. But there was so much pain here already, he could almost lose himself in it.

He already had.

Skin under his fingernails, he shoved them like claws into a pair of eyes. A solid punch could stop a heart. He didn't know how many there were. The footsteps were in chaos, too many were trying to squeeze out of this tiny alley. His hands were slick with blood, an arm slid its way out of his grip and the terrified man was out of range. The punk had run and he was _safe_.

The fury at deep in his chest, he could hardly breathe with the weight of it, and he turned toward the rest. There was a pause, he could hear them sinking against the furthest wall. And then one reached out and grabbed him.

With her, he knew better than to react.

"You have to stop," she sobbed. Her hands were on his face, and like magic he could open both his eyes and see. He could see her matted hair and shredded blouse and exposed breasts, which he wouldn't look at and still they made him feel like vomiting in the street.

"Please," she begged. Her voice was dropping, she leaned against his chest and curled her fingers around his shirt. "Please don't kill them. Please don't do this."

It almost worked. Like an old habit, a lit cigarette, a favorite coat. "I won't—" he said. But wouldn't he? Wouldn't he do anything, kill anyone, hurt everyone? He grabbed her shoulders and shook her so her head jerked up and down.

He looked right in her eyes. "I won't lose."

He shoved her, but some habits die hard and so she ended up behind him, away from the four young men who stood with their backs flat against the wall. He could see them, now, he could see how small they really were.

He felt her grab at his shirt from behind, so he spun and casually backhanded her across her face. She fell back, down, her hands over her mouth instead of covering her chest.

They knew they weren't going to get away. So the four street punks who were only standing there waiting to die decided to take advantage of the distraction. They rushed him.

Her voice hurt him, it always had. He could always hear it and he always had to listen. He wondered that he didn't hate her. He turned someone's head around. His neck snapped like dry wood.

He _did_ hate her. She was the cause of everything.

He didn't enjoy the blood as much as before, when he could only feel and taste it. Or hear it, when he sunk his fingers into a stomach as if he had a knife.

It was so easy after that.

When he turned around there were enough bodies to jump from one end of the alley to the other, and never once have your toes touch the blood soaked ground. She'd stopped screaming. _Finally_, she was letting him have a moment's peace.

She cringed as he approached. She was curled up against a wall and she was shaking, and she wouldn't look at him.

"Shut up," he snapped, though she wasn't saying anything. He dutifully took off his coat and dropped it on the ground beside her. She didn't take it.

"Get up."

She shook her head.

_Let's go_."

She started crying.

He grabbed her by the shoulders again and hauled her to her feet, swearing all the while. She didn't fight him. He draped the coat over her shoulders awkwardly, and when he had it so she almost looked all right, she grabbed his hands.

"It's my fault," she said. "I'm sorry, it's all my fault—"

He jerked away. "Of course it is," he said. "I already knew that."

He turned to walk away, and she was slow to follow. But she did follow.

She was never going to stop.

She never had.

She never would.

They'd done this all before.

It was never going to stop.

He could still taste the blood in his mouth.

He didn't hate it.

_ I can't remember anything_

_  
--- _


End file.
